


Metamorphic

by GloriaMundi



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Original Work
Genre: M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old tale told new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphic

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for JACK, the original slash magazine, but that issue never saw print: so the story, orphaned, became a Christmas gift to my LJ f-list ...

"Stay there. Stay like that," said Luke, hand on my head as though I were a dog, turning away from me.

Stay? I was too taken aback to move, at least for a moment. I knelt, my mouth still sore from stretching round him, and stared up at him.

The chisel, a narrow-bladed one, was already in his hand. His jeans, unzipped, hung loose: his cock, still hard, still wet with my saliva, pointed lewdly at the rough-worked marble block before him. His torso was bare, and his dark hair, reddened with sun, tied back from his face.

"When you said you wanted my mouth, I never --"

Luke glanced over his shoulder, and shushed me. Tick, tick, went the chisel. "You have a lovely mouth, Stefan. A mouth that men speak of, amongst particular friends. A famous mouth." Tick, tick, tick. "_Infamous_, I should say. Just ... just be quiet, please."

Tick, tick, tick. Luke'd moved round a little, to work on the face and look at mine, from time to time, for reference. Not that he wanted my face: it was just my mouth that he was paying for, today. His own expression was calm and serious. I liked the way his hands moved on the stone, as though finding the shape inside it. I could've done with those hands on me. I could taste him still, musk and salt and that slight bitter tang, and every breath I took seemed to intensify the savour. I wanted to feel him come. I cupped my own prick through my jeans.

"Don't do that," said Luke. Tick, tick, tick. "I haven't finished with you."

"Promise?"

"Promise." And there was that sweet smile, the smile that'd lured me in the first time I'd modelled for him; the smile that licensed him to do as he pleased, and not just with me, either. The smile that said, I'll give you everything you want, when I'm ready. Because of that smile, I stayed there on my knees on the moth-eaten red Turkish rug, lips parted, all whorish and eager, and let him find my mouth, somehow, in that stone.

"The hands are gorgeous," I ventured, a while later. "Who'd you get to pose for them?"

"A young man named ... Mike, I believe." Luke frowned. He was using a different tool now, tiny little strokes that shaved away thin slivers of stone. "I was watching him in a bar in town with his girlfriend. He was holding her hand. His hands are like anatomy lessons. It was a considerable effort to persuade him to model, but I made it worth his while."

"Must've taken ages," I said, imagining those broad sculpted hands made flesh, spreading long fingers across my skin, covering and claiming me. "They're beautiful." Above the elbows, the stone limbs were blurry and unfinished: the torso was sleek and polished, unremarkable (and unrecognisable) in its perfection. The feet were carved in unflinching detail, tendons and toenails and a nock behind the ankle-bone, as though Luke's chisel had slipped.

"Your perfect man's not so perfect, then," I said, pointing out the mark.

"Perfection's a lie," snapped Luke. "I'm not interested in perfection: it's _beauty_ I want to create, to discover. To bring something out of nothing." He ran his thumb across the sculpted copy of my mouth, and the gesture brought an answering twitch from my cock.

The studio was warm with sunlight, and smelt of oil and dust and garlic. I'd been late to bed the night before; some work needs darkness, but Luke had demanded my presence well before noon, to catch the best light. He'd ordered me not to move, not to smile, not to do anything that would change the shape or angle of my mouth, the fall of light upon it, the tension of the muscles in my face. It's no effort to hold a pose. I sat still, mouth agape, and dreamed of some rich man who'd buy this statue, fall in love with its mouth, ask Luke to bring him the model ...

"There: that's all," Luke said, setting down his tools and unzipping his jeans. His cock was only half-hard now, but he stroked himself a couple of times, quick and rough, and turned towards me.

"Where was I?" he said, grinning.

"Right here," I said, and I ran a finger along the plump curve of my lip, pulling my mouth open, tongue-tip touched to fingernail. Luke's thumb pressed against the corner of my mouth, just as it'd done on the unyielding marble a moment ago. I looked him in the eye, and tried not to think of the eyeless face behind him, looking back at me.

It was all pretty quick after that: his cock pushing, hard and huge and cool, between my lips, nudging the back of my throat, pulsing as I swallowed against the intrusion. "Oh, fuck, Stefan, your mouth, your mouth," he was saying, fingers twisted in my hair (he'd complained last spring when I'd had it cut short: I'd let it grow again), all the way in, letting the muscles in my throat squeeze and press and hold him. He was bigger than any of the other men I'd had, and it wasn't comfortable: I could hardly breathe. But the way he thrust, and moaned, and said my name as he came too deep to taste -- oh, that was desperately exciting.

I sat back, gasping for air, fumbling at the zipper of my jeans. Luke's hand was there before mine. Last time he'd made me bring myself off while he watched, but this time his hand closed around me, calloused and gritty and tight enough to hurt at first, and he worked me slowly, staring into my eyes, telling me softly how much he wanted to bend me over and fuck me (which he never has), to feel me opening up for him and taking it all, to get deeper inside me than anyone's ever ...

I didn't last long; and while I was still shuddering and moaning, Luke leaned forward and kissed me, oddly gentle, on the mouth. A proper kiss.

"Would you like a glass of wine before you go?" he offered, standing up and unselfconsciously tucking himself away.

"No thanks," I said. I wanted just to sit there and look at him: the dappling of marble-dust and sweaty skin, the way his muscles slid under his skin, the fall of his long hair as he untied the thong and shook his head from side to side. The slight frown as he watched me watching him.

It was time to leave.

* * *

Damien, who swam every morning at the Lido, was the model for the statue's legs, ankle to thigh: he'd spent three days at Luke's, dining on fried chicken from the cookshop across the road. "Had me strip right down!" he complained, over coffee in Rosa's. "'What, just for my legs?' I said to him. 'Not just for your legs,' he says, 'I need to see the way they fit the rest of your body.' 'None of _that_ business,' I warned him: but he just laughed."

"Didn't give you any trouble, then?" I said, laughing too at the thought of a model saying no to Luke.

Damien shook his head. "Not a bit. And the money's good."

"So he stopped at the hip, like he said?"

"Yep. Why," and a sly smile twitched at Damien's mouth, "are you saying I've got the perfect dick, Stef?"

"Course you have, love," I said, grinning, though I didn't recall ever having seen it. "Wonder who he's having to model for _that_?"

"I heard," said Damien softly, leaning across the table, "that he had a _girl_ to do the eyes."

"A girl?" I said, disbelieving. "Sure it wasn't Alex? Very convincing, is Alex."

"Nah," said Damien. "Some fancy bit from the Avenue." "Bet she ran straight back home," I said. "Luke's studio isn't the nicest place, is it? For all his proper talk and dinners with the jet set."

"Maybe he'll be able to afford something better," said Damien, "once he sells Mr Perfect."

It's not about perfection, I was going to say: but the argument was all muddled in my head, and anyway Damien wouldn't understand.

I wondered how the statue looked now, how much of it still just shape without the detail, the character, that brought it to life. I wondered who Luke would hire to model for those elements, and in what coin he'd pay them.

* * *

The day had been warm, but there was a bitter breeze now that the sun had set. I hadn't seen Luke since he'd told me my mouth was famous: I wanted to see what he had made from the limbs and features and stances of other men. I had my heavy coat on, and -- to ease my welcome -- a bottle of wine in the pocket. There was most of another one inside me, for I'd been sitting in the courtyard behind the Globe, drinking with Leo and Sy, for most of the afternoon.

Luke's studio is at the end of an alleyway, in an old warehouse right next to the canal. The alleyway stinks at the best of times, and I didn't fancy it after dark: I went around the outside, instead, along the tow-path that led past Luke's window.

I could hear Luke talking to someone, and I glanced in to see who was there. As far as I could see -- the studio was lit by a single dim lamp, and the window was dirty -- Luke was alone. He was standing barefoot on the red rug in the middle of the room, not five feet from me, wearing only those filthy jeans. There was white stone-dust in his hair, which hung all tangled and loose on his shoulders today. He was swigging from a wine-bottle -- a nearly empty one, judging by the angle at which he tilted it to drink -- and addressing the statue where it stood still (how else?) at the end of the studio.

I turned my head and pressed my face closer to the glass, the better to hear, the better to _see_. Oh, Luke's creation was complete, now, no doubt of it. With the dim light it was easy to imagine that a living man stood there, just about the same height as Luke, straight-backed and relaxed, weight on his left heel. I had seen a rough man-shape in stone: now it was all pale and polished, reflecting back the reddish lamplight, smiling slightly (_my_ smile, I realised) at Luke as he ranted.

"Too good to be true," I heard, and "never anyone like you" and "the world's a sad and sorry fallen place." He was pretty drunk, from the sound of it: he wouldn't be needing the bottle in my pocket. There was a wild abandon in his voice, in the way he stood -- lurching sideways in a mockery of the statue's hipshot stance -- that made my own blood surge. I crouched down by the window, peering in at the two of them -- Luke so alive, the statue impassive stone -- and hoping that Luke was too distracted to notice me.

Luke spun on one heel, gesturing, and now I could see what had been obscured: the statue's groin. I had to jam my knuckles against my mouth to suppress a laugh, for Luke had obviously modelled it on his own. No false modesty there; no modesty of any sort, in truth, and no fig leaves or draperies to hide the proud jut of it. Luke had flattered himself. I remembered the stretch of my mouth around his prick, right enough, but surely the statue's member was even larger.

Luke fell to his knees, there on the rug, gazing up at that hard pale perfect body yearningly. Wishing it were real, no doubt. I didn't blame him.

The light bulb buzzed loudly, and flickered: Luke shot it a deadly look. He put the wine bottle down, and I thought for a moment that he was going to prostrate himself at the scarred, carven feet. Then I thought, no, no, he can't be about to --

Luke leant forward, hands braced against the stone thighs, and his tongue came out to lap at that impressive organ. I imagined I could see veins, hairs, the convex ridge of the cockhead, but that was more memory than anything. The sight of Luke's mouth, opening wide to admit this marble copy of his own cock, made me instantly, achingly hard. I wanted to feel cold marble against my own lips. I wanted to hear Luke swallow, hear his ragged breathing as he took it deeper. When he drew his head back, lips sliding along the stone shaft, the marble was pinkened with wine from his mouth.

There was a faint sound: tick, tick, tick. The sound of stone against teeth.

Luke took a deep breath and lunged forward, taking more of it this time. One hand was still pressed against the long smooth line of the statue's thigh (which was Damien's, in life): the other was at his waist, fumbling with his fly. I thought of going in and putting my hand over his, of sucking him off as he suckled the insensible stone. But this was something private, something sacred, and he'd rage and roar at me: so I stayed where I was, and put my hand to my own warm flesh instead.

Luke's hand was busy, now, on his own cock; definitely smaller than the one his lips were trying to engulf, but twitching and dark and alive. I could hear him moaning around the huge, cold thing in his mouth, trying to draw it deeper. Difficult enough if you're practiced, as I am: nigh impossible for a man like Luke, only ever interested (according to every rumour I'd given out or got) in _receiving_ such a favour. And yet he seemed eager to swallow down this creation of his, never mind that there could be no natural end to such an act.

Just looking at the curve of his back as he knelt, the way the electric light reflected in runnels of sweat like molten gold on his pale skin, made my own hand move faster. I half-closed my eyes, wishing it was Luke's mouth on me (I'd give him more than any bloody stone), wishing --

Luke swore, and a shudder of panic ran through me. He'd seen, he'd seen me ... but no, he was pulling away from the statue, its carven member gleaming pinkly with his vinous spit; rocking to his feet, kicking away his jeans as though they were on fire. He strode out of my view, towards the back room that he slept in.

_That's it,_ I thought. _That's it for tonight._

In the uncertain light, the statue's face (my mouth, that girl's eyes, an unknown's nose) had a mocking look.

There was a clattering sound, as of a table swept clear: then Luke came back, naked and sweaty and dirty, his prick still proud. He was holding something small in one hand. He dropped to his knees on the rug again, facing the statue: I had a fine view of his profile, from my spy-place on the other side of the glass, and I could see his lips moving, though I couldn't, now, hear him speak.

The thing in his hand was a little screw-top jar. He was opening it, scooping out a dollop of some greasy ointment, spreading his knees wider and rocking forward, reaching around himself _oh heavens he's ..._

I was frozen, still as stone; my hand had come to rest, and I felt dizzy at the thought of it. The sight of Luke, pushing his fingers into himself (I couldn't see it clearly, but every line of his body, his face, spoke eloquently of the feel of it) should have been wildly arousing. I'd never dreamt that he might want ... but to see _what_ he wanted, to see him opening himself up for a pretty chunk of lifeless, soulless stone, made something twist all nauseous in my gut.

His hand went to the tin again, and then to the statue's jutting member. The thought of taking _that_ made my own arse clench sympathetically. Luke's hand curved all tender and sensual round the stone, caressing it as though it had skin and nerves and sensation. I thought of him carving, calling each curve and swell from the stone, tick, tick, tick; polishing and grinding, perfecting. Had his prick swelled, even then, at the thrill of touching this fossilised, magnified version of himself?

I could hardly believe that he was going to ... was going to _do it_: but he stood, and turned his back on the thing, his spine against its cold chest. It was as tall as him, and as beautifully proportioned: its arms were by its sides, and -- perhaps it was all the wine in me -- I half-expected, half-hoped that it would raise its hands and pull him closer.

Luke was flushed and panting: he was leaning forward and pushing his hips back, one hand reaching round to guide and open himself. I looked at the high taut curve of his buttock, the moisture gleaming at the tip of his cock, and I wanted to stop it, to stop him, to show him how this should truly be.

I didn't move. I could scarcely breathe: I caught my lip between my teeth as Luke backed against the thing -- he was biting his lip too, and I saw the blood start darkly -- and bent at the waist, supple as a girl, angling himself to take it. I could tell the moment when the stony length touched his arse, and when he began to push against it, impaling himself: I could see that it hurt. But he muttered an oath, and bit his lip harder, and pushed, _pushed_, and it was going into him, the whole hard length of it disappearing slow and smooth (suddenly I wanted to be close, to see everything, every inch) into his body.

At last Luke's arse was pressed against the statue's muscled belly, the scant carved curls of hair. He was breathing deeply, swallowing hard: his own prick had softened somewhat with effort and pain. But he rocked forward, just a little, and then back: and his eyes rolled, his mouth made a silent, blissful O. Again. Again.

The light was flickering -- a loose bulb, or faulty wiring -- and my eyes were beginning to ache with staring so hard through the dirty window. For a moment I thought the statue had _moved_, had stretched --

I was as hard as I'd ever been (though not as hard as the organ on which Luke'd impaled himself) yet I wanted to last, to see this through. Luke's face was beautiful, all anguish and pleasure as he fucked himself on the ungiving stone. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the marble prick snapped off -- some flaw in the stone -- and left Luke staggering around splay-legged with that huge member buried deep inside. I choked back laughter, though it came out anyway as a moan.

I thought Luke would've heard me, but he gave no sign of being aware of anything but this terrible, wonderful, supremely selfish pleasure. It wasn't an easy position: he could move only his hips, bucking against the unyielding stone. I wondered if he'd thought of laying the statue down on its back: if he wished he'd carved it in a different pose. He was bent so far forward, now, that his face was hidden behind his hair. One hand worked his cock furiously: the other gripped the statue's marble thigh.

I blinked, and rubbed my eyes left-handed, my other hand still busy on my cock, long slow strokes to keep me going until Luke brought himself off. He was spreading his legs wider, up on his toes, to open himself more, and, and I was sure of it now: it was moving, the _statue_ was moving.

Its knees were bent, and they hadn't been before, and it was leaning over Luke's back, and its carved hair was falling forward over its ears. Like real hair.

I wanted to blame the wine, or my eyes, or the faulty lamp, or Luke. Especially Luke. But all I could think was, "It's moving. It's real." Over and over, matter-of-fact, like "It's dinner-time," or "Rent's due tomorrow: I need to find a punter tonight." A fact. A statue moving, a statue putting its stone hand -- its hand that had been stone -- over Luke's own on his cock, stroking him rough and hard as he'd stroked me that time, though I'd bet there was no grit left on its palm: he'd have seen to that when he polished and dusted and buffed. A statue with its arm round Luke's waist, pulling him back against itself, pumping its unstony hips, fucking him hard, filling him over and over with that huge, hard (still hard) cock.

Luke was moaning, writhing against that body that was no longer still, was no longer marble-white but the colour, now, of pale flesh. Perhaps he was too overwhelmed by sensation to recognise the miracle, the horror, that had happened. Perhaps this was what he'd wanted, or expected, or, somehow, _done_.

The statue sank to its knees, uncaring of the cold rough floor, and pulled Luke down onto itself. I could see its eyes: they were grey, and they were looking at me. It could see me. _He_ could see me.

As if presenting a show, the statue put its, his, hand to the back of Luke's neck and pushed him forward, bending him nearly double, so that I could see the spread of his arse and the pale shape of the statue's prick, pushing in, pulling out; pausing, holding still, 'til Luke began to struggle in the implacable hold, began to plead; then in again, fast and all the way. Again, again, until he was shaking and struggling all the time, gasping "oh please, oh please," like a man who's lost all other words. His cries drowned out my own ragged breath. I could not last.

I wonder if it was for me, too, that the statue pulled Luke back upright suddenly, lifting him up until there was only a scant inch inside him, waiting, waiting: slamming him down, bucking up into him so that Luke wailed and thrashed and came, gout after gout, over the statue's pale hand, over his own thighs, over the red Turkish rug.

The statue was still fucking him, more slowly now, when I'd finished moaning and biting my knuckles and coming as quietly as I could. Luke was lying back, all limp and elegant, against the statue's shoulder: his eyes were closed, but his lips parted at each slow stroke. I could not tell if it was in protest or in bliss.

This could go on all night, I thought, tidying myself. I can't stay here. And yet I could not leave. I sat in the dark outside Luke's window, watching as his own creation, come to life, gave him what he'd surely yearned for: and, all sudden, arched up under him, pushing deeper than ever (Luke cried out) and, with a groaning noise like splitting rock, achieved some crisis, some high point: hung there, still as ... still, for a moment: then sagged, like a living thing, against Luke.

It, he, they, had not looked at me again.

"What are you?" I heard Luke say at last, half wondering and half afraid.

I saw the pale lips part as if to speak: but if there was any reply save a kiss, I did not hear it.

-end-


End file.
